


266 - New Neighbours and a White Kitten

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “reader doesn’t recognise Van and starts talking about catfish and how good they are but the reader couldn’t get tickets for their gig and like van plays along and/or teases the reader about it.” from Anon and Van + kitten = cuteness for placidusMini request of Reader’s fav band being The Cranberries. Rest in peace Dolores, you beautiful hero.





	266 - New Neighbours and a White Kitten

On the wooden floorboards of the living room, you sat cross-legged. Armed with a stack of post-its, you tore sheet by sheet off, rolling them into balls and sending them bouncing along the floor. The tiny white kitten chased them, her movements manic and happy and jumpy. Earlier in the day, you tried the catnip filled fluffy mice toy, the string on a stick, the everything else, but nothing held her attention like the bright yellow post-it note balls. Once she had one cornered, she’d pick it up in her mouth and trot along. Without an established home base to drop it in, she simply walked around until something else caught her attention.

“I can’t believe paper is her favourite,” Larissa said, watching the kitten with an expression of confusion on her face. She was more of a dog person. “I’m gonna make some tea. Want some?”

You nodded, only briefly looking up at her.

The pure white kitten, only a few grey hairs on the top of her ears and along her spine and tail, was a dream come true. Ever since you moved out of your family home at eighteen, moved away from the cats you had grown up with, you’d pined for the softness of a feline friend. You missed their heavy purring, their tickling whiskers, their little toe beans, their love heart noses, their fuzzy bellies, their everything ever.

A couple and a bit years later, you finally found a rental that allowed pets. It was a strange set up really. “What is this?” Larissa had asked when she first came over. Again, confusion plastered across her face. The family that owned the house had renovated it. They cut the bottom story in two, turning half into a self-contained unit they could rent out for extra income. The other half and upstairs was where they lived.

The front door opened onto the living room. It was small - just enough room for a couch, mini entertainment unit, a bookshelf, and a few plants - but it had gorgeous floorboards. Through the living space was an even smaller room that was flipped into a galley kitchen. Through there, you found a bedroom. Bigger than the living room, it had the same floorboards and plenty of natural light. There was a small ensuite that could probably fit a washing machine if you figured out the dimensions of it all, but the coin op laundry down the road was fine.

“It’s like one of those mini homes, like on the T.V. I’ve already been looking online for tips on living small. It’s good. I won’t collect as much crap from everywhere. The family is super nice. It’s gonna be great!” you told your best friend as she stood in the bedroom. You were still in the living room. Voices did not need to be raised.

“I guess it’s a pretty cool neighbourhood. Didn’t Alex Turner live around here or something?”

“What? I don’t know. Guess the best part!” you replied, bouncing on the spot. Larissa just shrugged, walking back to you. “Riss! Guess! Come on,”

“Ah… Bus goes straight to uni?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not it. Think: what I’ve always wanted,” you hinted.

“You can get a cat?”

You could get a cat.

Larissa and a few other friends helped you move in. With hardly anything to your name, it wasn’t a difficult job. Early start, done by midday. And, by the end of the week, a mere four days later, you went to the shelter and found the snow white kitten meowing your name.

“Here,” Larissa said as she placed a mug of tea on the floor next to you.

“Thanks. What do you think I should name her?”

“Y/N, even if I give you a suggestion, you’re gonna disregard it,”

“No!” Yes, probably. “That’s not true!” Yes, it was. “What are your ideas?”

“Ah… I always thought naming ya pets after Harry Potter characters would be cool, you know? Pick one with the traits you want the animal to have, or whatever,” she said casually, but the suggestion was too thought out to have come into existence then and there.

“Like what?”

“Well… if you want the cat to be independent and a problem solver, Hermione. Or like, Luna for loveable and a bit weird. Tonks for bold and wild and cool,” Larissa suggested.

“So she has to have a girl name?”

“She’s a girl cat,”

“Do cats have gender?” you asked back.

“Name your fuckin’ cat Harry. I don’t give a fuck. What are you thinking, anyway? Some stupid band reference?”

Again, yes, probably.

“You know that album I’ve been listening to on repeat? There’s a song on that called Kathleen,”

“No,” she said immediately.

“Bu-”

“No. Next,”

“Um… Two songs have other names in them. There’s Abby and Mary,” you told her.

Larissa gave you a blank expression, then took a mouthful of tea while maintaining eye contact.

“Those are normal names. Name your firstborn Mary or something. This is a cat. Get weird, Y/N. Jeez.”

You frowned and looked back at the kitten. She would have to remain unnamed for a while yet. Naming her seemed like such an important thing; it couldn’t be taken lightly.

…

For the first twenty minutes of the morning, you stayed calm and assumed the kitten was hiding somewhere. Ten minutes after that, you were searching frantically. Another ten, you were outside making strange sounds that you hoped were audio-magnetic to cats. You called Larissa, almost crying, but by the time she arrived half an hour later, the kitten appeared. She was meowing on the doorstep, then happily waltzed in and went straight for the blanket she had slept on.

Where had she gone? Wherever it was, she was calm, sleepy, and not hungry. She didn’t drink any of her kitten milk until well into the afternoon.

…

The next morning, the same happened. Out on the still-foggy street, you called her name.

“Bones! BONES!”

Your voice echoed down the quiet road. The street lights were still on and nobody was up yet. The weird dude that runs by in fluro activewear hadn’t even made an appearance yet.

Front door left open, you patiently waited for the kitten to find home. And that, she did. Again, calm, sleepy, and not hungry.

When she settled in your lap as you binge-watched the entire first season of Absentia, you spoke to her.

“Where are you getting to, huh? You got some reoccurring breakfast date I don’t know about? And how the hell are you getting out?”

…

On day three, you hatched a plan. Your alarm woke you up just as sun was breaking over the horizon. The sound from your phone had snapped Bones from her kitten dreams too, so up and at ‘em she went. Standing in the shadows, you watched as she used the kitchen drawer handles to scale onto the bench. From there, she headed to the window. The window was open, but a bug screen kept outside outside and inside inside. Or, so you thought. Bones nudged her head at the corner, pushing her tiny body through the smallest of rips. Then she was gone.

Running through the house, you stuck your head out the front door in time to see her white tail disappear around the corner and onto the footpath. It was a Monday morning, so there was a little more activity than the previous day. It didn’t seem to deter or distract Bones. She was on a mission.

At the last house on the corner, a small cottage with an unkept garden, Bones stopped. At the open gate, she hesitated, before running up the path and scratching at the front door.

You weren’t sure what to do. The sound of the garbage truck a street over rumbled and you imagined the fearful reaction Bones would have when it came down yours. She’d run, and you’d not find her again. Following her, you quickly swiped her up off the doorstep and held her close. She wriggled, displeased. Turning away from the door, you heard it open.

A croaky voice asked, “Ah, can I help ya?”

Spinning again, you starred at the guy. He was in black boxer briefs and nothing else. His brown hair was sticking up everywhere, and the hand he was running through it did nothing to tame it. The expression on his face told you he’d just woken up.

“Um. Sorry. No. Just getting my cat,” you replied.

The guy looked in your arms, seeing Bones for the first time. His face lit up, awake and alive and in love?

“Hey! David Snowie!” he said, stepping from his doorstep to be closer, to pat Bones.

“What?”

“Named 'im David Snowie…” the guy explained, like it actually did explain. “Because he’s white… like… like snow, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, no, I get the name. It’s genius. But her name is Bones. And she's… mine?” you replied, confused.

“Figured someone owned 'im… Been round last couple of days. Just walking past as I got home.”

The guy was scratching Bones’ chin and she was responding with a thick purr.

“What time do you get home? She leaves in the morning?”

“Been out pretty late Friday and Saturday. Just stuff for my band. For work,” he replied, his words coming slow, distracted by Bones’ existence.

“Have you been feeding her?”

“Oh, yeah! He was all meow-y, see. Just gave 'im a couple of my dog’s biscuits, a bit crushed up. Is that okay? Larry said I shouldn’t, but he seems fine,”

“Her. Bones is a her,” you replied on autopilot.

“Sorry. Her. Can I still call her David Snowie though?” he asked, grinning. His teeth were off-white and resembled those of a baby vampire. You liked them. You liked how his smile caused his cheeks to dimple and the lines around his eyes to crinkle. Then, his eyes. Blue. A really, really beautiful blue. You usually went for the dark-eyed, smouldering type. But the blues… “Love. You alright?”

“Sorry. What?”

“Are you okay?” he asked again, smiling again.

“Yeah. I'm… I’m fine. Ah. You… can call her that. But I’m probably gonna fix the hole she’s been escaping through. Don’t really want a kitten roaming around getting’ fed by strangers, you know?”

“Oh,” he replied slowly. He looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. I’ve grown very attached to Snowie. Why’d'ja name her Bones?”

The question followed on so quickly from the statement that you took a second or two to process. The guy was really starting to think something was wrong.

“It’s my favourite song,”

“No way! You mean like, The Killers’ Bones? That’s mad! I love The Killers!” He held Bones’ face between his fingers, smooshing her up. “Well we have to call you Bones then, huh? Save Snowie for the next white critter that comes along.”

There was nothing more to say, but the guy didn’t stop patting Bones and you didn’t take a step off his front porch. The garbage truck was down at the other end of your street, you really needed to get going.

“You’ve just moved here, have you?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Yep. Ah, you know that house 'bout mid way down that they turned into a split level type of thing?”

“Oh, yeah. I moved here just before they started that. Did wonder what they were doing. So it’s like, two apartments now?”

“Kinda. The bottom level is split, and I live in half of that. It’s a little unit thing…”

The guy nodded, and the small talk ended again. It wasn’t that neither of you had anything to say. It was that there was no reason to say it, it went again social norm.

“Well, since I know where you live now, maybe I could come give Bones a visit?”

God, thank you.

“Yeah. I think she’d like that. She seems… pretty attached to you too,”

“Cool. Well, I’ll see you around then,” he said, dropping his hands from Bones and stepping back into his doorway. “I’m Van, by the way,”

“Y/N,”

“Y/N and Bones. Good pair,”

“Thanks,” you said, then moved Bones’ little paw to wave at Van, who genuinely laughed and waved back.

Van stayed standing on his doorstep while you walked down his garden path and back home.

As you fed Bones breakfast, her first proper one, you nodded in her general direction.

“Alright, cat. I’ll give you that one.”

…

The week went on and Bones became accustomed to sleeping in and being delivered a breakfast by you, not Van. The first day without him, she gave you the best side-eye you’d ever seen produced by a cat. “Look, if I can’t have him makin’ breakfast in bed for me, neither can you,” you told her. She seemed to accept it as fair, drinking her kitten milk without fuss.

You were home late and exhausted on Thursday. Your 8 am lecture was cancelled without notice, so you were at uni hours early without the texts you needed to make use of the time. Your afternoon shift at work was too busy, everyone seeking shelter from the rain inside the tiny café you waitressed at. The bus was behind schedule and your umbrella broke. By the time you made it into the safe space of home, your mood was subzero.

Bones was asleep in her bed, both unaware and unaffected by your dramatic swishing around the place as you got undressed, threw your clothes to the floor, and showered with the door open; you hoped the steam would help warm the place up quicker.

When you finally sat on the couch in track pants and an old hoodie (no bra, no t-shirt, the exact definition of comfy) it was just past 7 pm. Then, there was a knock on the door and a wave of annoyance-turned-rage washed over you. Bones lifted her head at the noise, deeming it out of place to your usual commotion.

“Should I just ignore it?” you whispered to her. From her bed situated beneath the television (she liked the moving glow) she offered no help. Reasoning that it could be the landlords, you decided to answer. Part of you hoped maybe it was Larissa. You’d messaged her about your bad day. She wasn’t that proactive and responsive though.

Standing on your doorstep, with no porch or awning to shield him, Van was dripping wet. Before he could speak, you stepped back and ushered him inside.

“Oh my god! Get in!”

The sound of wet boots hitting the floorboards, of a stranger’s presence, of the slamming door, sent Bones running back through the house to your bedroom. Neither you or Van noticed.

“Hi,” he said, clearly amused at your fussing. He was watching you run back and forth trying to find the box with spare towels in it. Yet to unpack everything, your place was a tad chaotic.

“Hi. Here,” you replied, handing him a black and white striped beach towel.

He shook it over his head then left it wrapped around his shoulders. “Hi. I have something for you. Kinda 'welcome to the neighbourhood’ slash housewarming type of thing, I guess.” Van swung a bag of his back and put it on the floor, digging through until he found what he was after. A bottle of wine. Red. Sweet. Rich. Perfect. You took it and hugged it.

“How’d you know?” you asked, smirking.

“Good at guessing people’s vices,” he replied with a casual shrug.

“Well you got Bones’ straight away, so I guess you are. Did you want to stay for a glass?”

You were already walking towards the kitchen, but Van stayed in the same spot near the front door. He was zipping his bag up when he spoke.

“I would. Trust me, I really would. But I’ve not eaten since like, 9, and I am gonna pass out. I’m already a lightweight. Put one glass of that in me and I’ll be fallin’ all over the place, makin’ a mess. Wouldn’t want to leave an impression like that,”

“So, you’re gonna make me drink alone?” you replied, decorking the wine with a satisfying and timely pop. “What impression will that leave of you?”

Van smirked and you could have sworn there was blushing. Saved by the bell, Bones came bouncing through the room and greeted Van. His wet jeans left her white fur darkened and dewy.

“Hey, love,” he said to her as he picked her up and rubbed his nose on hers.

“I’m not going to make you stay, but I am about to order pizza-” you started again.

“I’m in. Can I take my shoes off? My socks are wet and it’s the worst feeling.”

Van left his boots and socks by the door. On top he threw his button up shirt and black denim jacket. You swooped to pick them up; they weren’t going to dry like that.

“Might as well just get naked,” you joked as you took his clothes to hang along the shower railing. Van followed you, struggling to walk and take his sticky jeans off at the same time. As you hung them up too, you both felt a strange sense of normality. It was foreign but comforting. “Are you cold now?” you asked him. He nodded.

Van was in fuzzy pink bed socks, underwear, and the biggest hoodie you owned. You sat side by side on the couch under a knitted blanket as you ordered pizza online and Van searched through Netflix for something to watch. As The End of the Fucking World played, Van wriggled down into the couch, nursing Bones on his lap and his wine in his hand. You glanced over and laughed out loud. He looked up at you.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’ve just… made yourself at home,” you answered. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why that would be laughable. “It’s good. I hate when people are all… like… like, 'oh can I have a glass of water’ type of thing, you know?”

Van nodded. “Yep. Same. If you’re in my house, it’s 'cause I want you to be there, so… just chill,”

“Yeah,”

“Cheers,” he said, holding his glass up. The sound of the glasses clinking together woke Bones. She stood and jumped from Van’s lap, crossing the floor to her own bed. Van gasped as she moved. A small, sad gasp. “Noooooo!” he whispered after her.

“I’m sorry this has happened to you,” you said to him. He laughed.

“We’re alright, love. Gonna have pizza soon,” he replied with a certain nod.

…

After a couple of episodes of remote wrestling and the show of choice changed to Skin Wars, the pizza arrived.

[In response to The End of the Fucking World: “Well this is dead cute, innit?!” from Van. “He wants to kill her. How is that cute? This is bullshit,” from you. “Nah. He’s just bein’ an angsty teen. Bit weird. He likes her. They’re good for each other,” from Van. “I’m not loving your idea of a healthy relationship,” from you. “Don’t worry, love. I don’t wanna kill you,” from Van. “I know you meant that to be sweet and flirty, but it was just really unsettling,” from you.]

You were relieved when Van started to eat from the box immediately, not hesitating to wait for plates. You had plates, but you didn’t really want to waste the clean up on pizza. The leftovers were left in the boxes, which were stacked next to the couch. Neither you nor Van wanted to get up again. The knitted blanket was too comfortable, and you had slowly gotten close each that your legs were touching and it didn’t appear purposeful. The illusion of innocence was maintained.

The warmth of the moment was making you sleepy. Your frame became heavy, and you leant into Van. He wrapped an arm around you and with his free hand, turned the television off by remote. You wanted to ask, 'what are you doing?’ but your mind was too hazy and you trusted him enough.

With no lights on, the room was illuminated only by the blue light coming from the street outside. The sound of rain was muted by the level above, but you could still hear it swelling and falling outside. Bones’ soft padding and ping pong ball game were somewhere in the back too.

“Sorry,” you mumbled out.

“For what?” Van whispered in reply.

“Fallin’ asleep,”

“You ain’t asleep. You’re just… in one of them cute little stormy moods girls get in, yeah?” It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded into him anyway. “Yeah. That’s okay. I like that. You wanna talk, or just sit?”

“Ask me stuff?” you replied. You spent a great deal of time online doing Buzzfeed quizzes. You really liked answering questions about yourself, even if you would never own up to the conceitedness of that.

“Ask you stuff. Alright. Um… So, you said you work in a café and go to uni, but what do you study?”

“Journalism,”

“Journalism. Think you’d be good at that. You can write about me and my band. Then we can both be famous!” he said with a chuckle. You nodded into him again. It sounded like a plan to you. You wanted to ask about his band, but he was already asking the next question. “How come The Killers are your favourite band?”

“They’re not,”

“But you said Bones is your favourite?” Van replied, the confusion in his voice manifesting in a higher pitch.

“Yeah. It is. But they’re not my favourite. The Cranberries are,” you clarified.

Van paused before speaking again. “Your favourite band didn’t even write your favourite song?”

“Correct,” you mumbled, unwilling to offer much more than that.

“Okay. Why are they your favourite then?”

“Mmmm… Synths. Good, good Sythns. 'Cause Dolores could like… sing an emotion, you know? She turned emotion into sound. And when it was all these dudes in the alt rock grungy 90s, there was her and her band and… good…” you answered, the words rolling into one another and eventually into silence.

“Turns emotion into sound… that’s good…” Van said. You could feel him nodding to himself. He understood.

“But I think I got a new favourite band now,” you added, suddenly a little perkier. Catfish did that to you. “Maybe like… everyone has an old school favourite, like a classic band type of thing, then we get a new band too,”

“Right. Like, I’d go with… maybe Van Morrison then The Streets…”

“Yeah!” you replied, sitting up, suddenly really into the conversation. Van looked at you, the same twinkle in his eyes sparked by music. “And I’d go with The Cranberries and this local band that I’m really into now called Catfish and the Bottlemen.”

Van’s expression changed. You couldn’t read it at all. At the very least, there was some recognition there though. His mouth opened, he was going to speak, but he closed it again. He smiled, small at first then an all-out grin. Vampire fangs.

“You know them?” you asked hesitantly. You were fiercely protective of the bands you loved, particularly hometown locals. If Van hated them, you’d start a fight.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Just put out a record,”

“Have you heard it?! It’s like…” Van watched you think, not blinking or looking away. “You know when you heard Arctic Monkeys for the first time and it was just like 'fuck, this is… just straight up good rock’ and it wasn’t pretentious or overly produced or anything? It’s like that. And it’s a bit like with The Cranberries, because it makes me feel something, you know? Like… it’s this weird fizzy nostalgia or something,”

“Fizzy nostalgia,” Van repeated, which you were beginning to notice was something he did a lot, like he was trying to memorise certain phrases and moments.

“Yeah. It’s all so fucking catchy. They’re playing a show at that place that is shutting down, what’s it called? But it’s sold out,”

“Um… You could just try stalkin’ them, you know? Make friends,” Van suggested.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious but don’t joke. I love them,”

“I’m still trying to make friends with Mike Skinner. The day he follows us back on Twitter will be the best day of me life,” Van replied, shaking his head to confirm he wasn’t poking fun at your love.

“That would be weird though, right? I don’t know anythin’ about them or what they look like or anything.”

Bones appeared at your feet, so you stood to feed her dinner. Van followed you through the kitchen, turning the lights on, and thinking to himself. He took a closer look then. The stack of CDs on the bookshelf, The Balcony on top.

“Ain’t there a photo in the CD book?” he asked.

“Not one that like, actually helps,” you replied, filling Bones’ bowl with milk. She began to purr and it put a sweet little smirk on Van’s face. If he loved your cat this much, how fucking much did he love his own dog? “You have a band. Try to open for Catfish for me,” you said, turning back to Van and pushing him through to the couch again.

Van flicked the television on and handed you the remote. He was quiet, all out of comments and questions. You looked over at him.

“Are you okay?” you asked him, suddenly worried.

“I… don’t know how to, like, say this without sounding like a dick,” he replied. You frowned immediately and felt dread knock on the door of your heart. “No!” he quickly added. “Don’t look like that! It ain’t bad!” He had his hands up in surrender. There wasn’t a single suggestion in your mind for what he was going to say. “My band… is… Catfish… That’s, ah, yeah, my band.”

Dear God. How did you not figure that out? Van + local + band = obviously. You’d always been shit at math though. 

There were a million things that could have justifiably been going through your mind. Did he give me permission to stalk him? Does he think I’m a crazed fan? Have I just ruined everything? Holy fucking Mary Mother of God (didn’t the booklet say his mother’s name is Mary?) Van McCann is here and looking at me and waiting for me to say or do something. Wait. What did he say his dog’s name was again?

Instead of any of those thoughts, there was just static. Slowly, the static turned into the drumbeat of Tyrants, which always brought you to tears.

“Is… this weird for you?” you finally said, your voice small and pure demonstration of your defencelessness.

“No. I can tell by… this,” he said, motioning towards your general expression of surprise and panic, “…that you didn’t have a fuckin’ clue who I was. Which is good. Always a bit weird to meet people that already know me, but I kinda love it, you know? Gonna be a real rockstar if I do this thing right. And I’m glad you like us. Humbled, even, love! Reckon you’ve got real good taste in music, so I’m honoured.” You nodded in response, pulled your knees up to your chest, and looked at him. His eyebrows pulled together for a brief second. “Why? This weird for you now?”

It would have been weird if you knew anything about him. But, you didn’t. You knew his name, his first album thank yous, and his voice. Between finding Catfish and uni starting for the year and moving and Bones, you hadn’t even had time to sit down and really even conjure up a daydream. Real life Van caught you just in time. As you shook your head, Van breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Small world,” you said to him, shaking the shock out of your body.

“I think it’s a pretty good, small world,” Van replied, scooping Bones up off the floor as she walked by. She settled in his lap with no fuss. You wanted to do the same.

“So, about that show…” you started.

Van looked over and the smirk that formed on his face was devious. “Yeah, babe?” he replied, popping the second B sharply.

“I want to go,” you said deadpan.

Van laughed. “I guess we can work something out.”


End file.
